


The Secret Keeper

by aykayem



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:45:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aykayem/pseuds/aykayem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Nothing's forever, and nothing is possibly that important. It was nothing more than a passing fancy, just like it is for him, just like it is for Ginny."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret Keeper

_Draco lay back on his bed, hands folded over his bare stomach, legs crossed at the ankle. He was the picture of casual, even completely starkers, wearing nothing but a smirk and the hickeys that Ginny had bitten over his collarbone. She was dressing at the foot of his bed, pacing across the floor in an attempt to find each discarded article of clothing. Her hair - more light brown than any real kind of red, not like her brothers - had been pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck at some point, bouncing with her breasts as she shimmied her skirt up over her hips and ducked to snatch her bra up from where it was hooked on a chair._

_"Off to yet another practice with Puddlemere, hm?"_

_"You know I don't play for Puddlemere," she replied curtly, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling. Her back arched as she reached back, zipping up the pencil skirt before giving him a stare. Draco just wiggled his toes in response, smirking still; he stretched not unlike a cat, arms high above his head before carding his fingers through his hair, folding them behind his head as he got even more comfortable._

_"Paying attention to whatever team you_ actually _play for sounds boring," he drawled back. She rolled her eyes again._

\---

It isn't the first time they've met up for a shag, and it certainly won't be the last.

Draco doesn't remember when it began, or how it came about; how Ginny came to show up at his flat without invitation, or even how they met up again after the War. He doesn't remember why he lets her, but he can always come up with new reasons.

The way she pushes him down to his own bed, taking whatever she wants without a moment's notice. The way her skirt rucks up over her thighs as she straddles him, fingers delicate and experienced when they trail over his chest, popping the buttons on his shirt and then his trousers. The way the callouses on her fingers tease his delicate skin better than any other he could think of.

He doesn't wax poetic aloud; he doesn't really see a need to. It's obvious enough that he enjoys it from the weight of his prick against her thigh and the way he leans up into the rough kiss, all teeth and tongue. His hand is cupping her breast through her shirt, thumb stroking against her nipple as he pulls her closer, hand settling into the small of her back as she slides onto him. He can't say that he's terribly shocked she's not wearing panties; Draco always thought Ginny was a little bit of a slut back in school, and he only had his proof now, whether it applied to back then or otherwise. Now, when he can't be arsed to spread it around without being expected to back up the slander. 

She rather likes the name-calling, though. That did surprise him, the first time it came up, the first time they shagged and realised they rather liked it rough and hard enough to bruise, with the sound of breathless insults still ringing in their ears. But like anything, Draco doesn't ask questions. There's no point where there's no attachment, no suggestion that they're friends or anything more after their clothing is tugged back on and they go back to their lives.

She's riding him hard into the mattress, her hips rocking against his. They're both dishevelled, and it will be a wonder if she can get back to her prior engagements without someone guessing that she had spent the last hour in a debauched arrangement with him. His hands brace her as he shifts, quickly flipping them over so it's her back against the sheets, her hands clutching at the collar of his shirt, wrinkling it further. Her legs spread wide, one held up near his shoulder, his hand on her thigh as he drives himself into her with renewed enthusiasm, his length thick and heavy inside her. She's soaking wet around him, and it only aides the slap of flesh on flesh as they fuck.

Draco watches her from above, one arm braced beside her head. She's splayed out over his bed, long hair tugged from its ponytail and spilling over his pillows. Not for the first time, he notes that the similarities between her and her brothers are few: her eyes are that strangely piercing brown, the faint speckling of freckles over her nose and cheeks are mirrored in them. He imagines for a moment that they're there, that they know what's happening here, that they know Draco is defiling their baby sister, and he comes harder than he can ever remember. He buries himself inside her, cock pulsing as he fists the sheet beside her. Then her back is arching hard beneath him, one hand scratching down his side as she comes along with him, her inner walls tight and clenching around him as she screams out wordlessly into the silence of his bedroom.

 

They lie beside each other on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. It's unremarkable, like virtually every other ceiling. They don't touch. Ginny's skirt is still rucked up over her thighs, and she slowly smooths it back down as she exhales, finally having caught her breath. Draco glances to her, lifting one brow thoughtfully; his mouth is curved in a smirk, his arms propping his head up.

"You came harder than usual," she comments idly, rolling her eyes when she realises he's watching her. Like it breaks the unspoken code of their arrangement.

"Is that a problem?"

For a moment, it's clear in her expression that she keeps overlooking minor portions of Draco's waking personality, the parts of him that aren't involved in fucking. The parts of him that everyone around him has determined to be obnoxious. They're probably the reason he's still single enough to do this on demand. It's either that, or he's not single, and he just doesn't care. She doesn't think she minds either way.

"No."

"I was imagining the looks on your brothers' faces if they knew," Draco drawls, the comment obviously intended to get some kind of rise out of her. She just looks amused, and he seems satisfied.

"You're kidding."

"I never kid."

She's sliding off the bed then, tugging down the edge of her skirt properly before reaching up to pull her hair back into its ponytail. His eyes still follow her as he props himself up on his elbows comfortably, shifting just enough to tuck himself back into his trousers. He'll take a shower later - once she's gone - making sure to scrub the lingering stickiness from his flesh. There's a long silence falling between them, but it's strangely comfortable, like they're content not speaking. After years of pretending to be civil, it's not that far a stretch to say that this arrangement is preferable in a way.

Draco breaks it as Ginny paces the room, trying to find her shoes. She always loses something in his room: an earring, a stocking. Her engagement ring, once.

"You know, one of these days, I'm going to get you pregnant, and you're going to be fucked." She glances to him, and he shrugs, continuing: "And not in the pleasant way, either."

"I don't think it'll much matter," she tells him, sitting back on the edge of the bed as she double checks the buttons of her shirt. Draco frowns, unsure of what to make of that. She amends it, glancing back to him, "If nothing else, I think I can come up with someone else."

"Someone preferable. And when it's blond?"

"I know other blonds."

"You're fucking other blonds?"

"I didn't say that."

Draco is still comfortable as they speak. If he's bothered at all by the subject matter, by the idea of her sleeping with people who aren't him and her fiancé, then it doesn't show. Ginny ignores it, "No one really needs to know if I actually slept with someone else."

She can feel his eyes on her.

"You make it sound like no one's going to care."

"Harry's gay."

The silence is almost comical, and the weight of his eyes boring into her is gone. When Ginny looks back over her shoulder, she finds that it's not because he's no longer looking at her; he is. He's gaping, in fact, grey eyes like saucers. She stifles a laugh, barely hiding the smile that curves her mouth, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"Excuse me?"

"He's gay."

"How do you know?"

Ginny shrugs, glancing away from him, letting her eyes dance around the room, the sun warm her skin from one side where it slides in through the bay window. "He hasn't touched me in a month without flinching. I had him followed; he isn't seeing someone else. Or if he is, two private detectives didn't find evidence of it."

Her tone is flat, like she's bored by the entire matter. Draco can't recall one time, that wasn't coital, during which she was enthusiastic about anything. There's something wrong with that, he decides; it's not his place to say anything, though, so the comment remains unspoken like so many of his thoughts. He just shrugs one shoulder, watching her thoughtfully. Studying her for unvoiced opinions and thoughts. Nothing is visible, but that doesn't mean anything. Draco still doesn't trust Ginny, no matter how many times they've slept together, and he knows that she doesn't trust him either.

Then she's glancing back at him, brown eyes sharp. It's one of the first times she looks like her brothers, and he thinks he'll remember that.

\---

Draco's always liked personal Transfiguration. Much more than turning teacups into kittens and turning mice into whatever it was they turned mice into. He can't remember, and he doesn't care to. Thinking too much on school reminds him too much of the handful of years in his life that he hated; it reminds him too strongly of the years that niggle at the back of his mind, suggesting that his life up till now is a complete farce. Of course, maybe that's why he likes Transfiguration so much.

It lets him tweak little things: his nose becomes less pointed, his eyes less striking, his hair less blond. It lets him blend in with the crowd when he normally stands out so completely. It lets him stare into the mirror until he doesn't recognise who it is staring back at him, and only then does he decide that he's ready. He runs his fingers through sandy brown hair, letting it fall into loose waves; he slowly blinks previously grey eyes, barely recognising the now-bland hazel there. He is nondescript, though his jawline remains the same. His build can be hidden easily enough by shirts or dimmed lighting, if anyone could even be bothered to try to put two and two together. He doubts they can be.

His end destination is, of all places, a gay club.

 

_He went once before, before he ever started seeing Ginny in any sort of semi-professional fashion. (That was what he was calling it in his mind, and he justified it by saying there's no friendship, no affection, no nothing. No money either, which allowed him to say semi-professional, instead of either of them acting as a proper whore.) Just after his last major relationship, which was actually a rather bizarre turn of events with Blaise that ended up going horrendously south shortly after Blaise decided monogamy wasn't for him. Draco just counted his blessings that his friend didn't take after his mother and try to off him. At any rate, they were still friends who had the occasional shag, but nothing quite as often as before._

_Draco entered the club with only the vaguest outward show of nerves to him; he was fairly certain he'd be eaten alive if he showed weakness in front of anyone in there. Why he had gone alone was beyond him; having someone to hide behind, or to pretend he was dating sounded like the far better idea than actually having to reject someone in the rare case that might happen._

_He didn't actually reject anyone. He did, however, end up having it off with some bloke in the hallway just outside the toilets, which he deemed too unsanitary to go anywhere near. He thrust hard into the other man's mouth, fingers tangled tight in his hair as he came, breath hitching; Draco had to bite down on his lip hard to keep from saying anything, to keep from uttering anyone's name accidentally when he didn't even know this poor sod._

 

This time around isn't much different, and Draco feels oddly at home this time around. The same pounding music, the same writhing mass of bodies in the middle of the room, most of whom seem to be wrapped up in some illicit activities that really ought to have been illegal, if they weren't already. He patently ignores them without really much trouble at all, taking more care to scan the faces of those dotting the periphery. He finds that, when his face is changed to this extent, he doesn't have any trouble avoiding the crowd's judgemental stares. He's a nameless face in a crowd, someone to be flirted with, and to flirt back as he sees fit. And he most certainly does see fit.

For the longest time - a good few hours - he mingles, dancing and rubbing elbows with young men of all sorts, none of whom expect anything from him. It's the freest he's felt in a while, until he remembers what he's doing there in the first place.

It's the sight of Potter's face, barely transfigured for anonymity, at the bar that reminds him.

 

_"Please, for the love of Merlin, tell me you're not going to do anything."_

_"I thought we had a stark agreement not to meddle in the other's business," Draco responded, one brow quirking at Ginny across the room. She shot him another dark stare, and he was fairly certain this was more emotion he'd ever seen from her in her life. She was almost angry, he might hazard if he fancied his bollocks being someplace other than where he liked them._

_"And last time I checked, you were shit at sticking to agreements."_

_"I've kept my mouth shut so far, haven't I?"_

_The look she gave him could have killed a man._

 

Harry's heartbeat is almost audible, what with how close Draco is standing to him. His breathing certainly is, hitching periodically as their bodies brush against each other in an attempt at dancing. He has no idea who Draco is, and probably plans on keeping it that way; Draco has no inclination to change that, either. If anything, he just wants to confirm what Ginny's told him. That Harry prefers blokes. He won't be that surprised if it does turn out that way, nor will he really judge it that harshly. There's nothing to judge - Draco's made no secret of his preferences, nor how they run either direction at any given point in time, simply based on his mood.

He feels Harry's body against his in that perfectly obvious way, demanding and eager: in the darkness of the club, there's no reason to hide the way his cock curves and strains against his jeans, pressing into Draco's leg whenever they press together, their bodies moving ever closer until Draco has a hand tracing along the curve of Harry's spine, and Harry has his mouth against Draco's jawline. It's a sign of things to come, and he's happy to go along with the way Harry drags him off to a more secluded area of the room, stealing away through people grinding and swapping spit, and people just having fun. The two are mingling as one, forming one massive body of writhing limbs and eagerness. It's easy to find a corner, to press closer yet. To feel hands tangle in his hair, and Harry's mouth hot against his skin, desperate despite having a girlfriend at home. There's nothing about this that makes Draco believe that Ginny might have been lying to him.

That's a first.

Hands wander, mouths meet flush, and buttons are popped, clattering against the floor; Draco is shameless as he gropes for Harry's prick in the dark, little to go off of with his fingers only vaguely brushing against the other man's abdomen, but it works all the same. Everything about it is quick and rough and gasping, sounds muffled inside the other's mouth as they try to devour each other. It's fierce and thrusting, and about as exhilarating as things are with Ginny.

There's perhaps something wrong with that, Draco thinks, that he can get both halves of a relationship more enthusiastic than their partner can. But it appeals to his ego all the same, and when Harry spills over Draco's hand, it's hard and with Draco's teeth grazing against his throat, leaving marks that will have to be charmed away in the future, if either of them want to retain their secrecy like he knows they will. He's reckless, he knows; he doesn't mind. A little danger never killed anyone, not like this. Not the kind that ends in orgasms and moaning someone else's name. And that's exactly how it ends, with Harry muttering a name slightly unintelligible against Draco's skin.

He doubts he'll report it back to Ginny, but there's something to be said for the dishevelled way he returns back home, just slightly more pleased with himself than when he left; even when he returns his appearance to its usual, there's something left there of the encounter, something left that sticks to him like glue even after the fact. Something that tells him he might not forget this for a little while to come, at the very least. He can't promise forever - nothing's forever, and nothing is possibly that important. He doubts Harry would want to remember it forever either; he doubts Harry figured out who he was. He doubts it was anything more than a passing fancy, just like it is for him, just like it is for Ginny. Just another quiet secret to keep.


End file.
